


Thirteen

by sherlockianfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sorry guys, Soulmate AU, This is trash, TrashTrashTrash, a waste of your time plz ignore, idk what I was thinking, took me like 45 minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockianfangirl/pseuds/sherlockianfangirl
Summary: Soulmate AU where every time you fall in love with someone, you get a scar on your arm.





	Thirteen

Thirteen.

On her left arm, (Y/n) has thirteen scars.

She's been in love thirteen times.

Even from across the room, Sherlock can make it out. Thirteen raised slivers of pink flesh, running from the delicate skin of her inner wrist to nearly the crook of her elbow. She's drifting around the entry area, greeting several different people, and every time she moves the scars wink at him, thirteen lines boasting of a status that Sherlock will never attain.

Because he doesn't want to, of course. His own left arm is perfectly smooth. Amorous connections? He'd rather stick with solving crimes.

Something, maybe her interesting predicament involving love, keeps Sherlock's eyes glued onto (Y/n). Others do the same. Their eyes focus on her scars for a moment, but quickly flit away and choose to stare at her legs, her dress, her lips shiny with pink gloss that curl upwards in a smile that steals everyone's breath...

For a moment, Sherlock finds himself unable to breath. (Y/n) isn't what he would call beautiful, or even pretty. At the moment, she may be what those ancient Greek philosophers called an ideal woman of _perfection_.

And then this perfection's eyes land on him. Her smile widens. Sherlock has only felt his heart beat this fast when he catches a killer in the act. Dear lord, this is _exhilarating_.

(Y/n) pushes her way through men wearing expensive suits with heavily pomaded hair and women in provocative evening gowns with rubies glittering at their throats. Suddenly, she's managed to sidle herself up next to him. 

He nearly flinches when his mind retrieves the onslaught of information being gained by his senses. Her eyelids dusted with pale glitter, her nails freshly painted at the salon a couple streets behind the flat, her perfume that smells of some sort of citrus. Sherlock notices such things about everyone. Why is he finding it so unprecedented now?

"Hi," (Y/n) says, "I didn't think you would be coming."

He wants to say that he changed his mind the moment he found that she would be attending. But what comes out of his mouth is "John convinced me to."

She laughs, a beautiful, delicate sound that sends heat rushing up Sherlock's neck, as if he's falling ill. "I'm glad that he did." She pauses to grab two flutes of bubbling champagne off of a waiter's tray. As her arms bend to acquire the alcohol, the scars are there again, rudely interrupting his train of thought.

They drink champagne and (Y/n) continues to talk, describing her day, something funny her friend did, a mishap with her hair when she was getting ready. For once, Sherlock finds himself comfortable to merely listen. Her voice his like a beautiful waltz, melodious and lilting and startling in its attractive consistency.

It's as if he's scored the best tickets in the concert hall, so close to the musician that he can capture her eyes as she plays.

\- - -

The two of them are still talking when a man tasked with photographing the event approaches them timidly. He gapes openly at (Y/n) until her eyes finally land on him. When they do, his mouth immediately snaps shut and his pasty face fills with color. For a moment, Sherlock fears that his face does the same.

"I-I'd like to take a picture of you," he stammers, "if that's a-alright."

(Y/n) smiles sweetly and obliges, but the second she puts her champagne flute down her face hardens. She reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Her scars glare at the photographer and he actually winces. 

This doesn't go unnoticed by (Y/n). Sherlock blames it on the adrenaline pumping through her when she plasters a fake smile on her face (that somehow isn't any less breathtaking) and slings her left arm across his back. He can feel the pressure of her arm and fingertips and ever-so-slightly her scars through his clothes. It makes him refrain a shiver.

"I- The host requested that I exclude the plus ones," the man says, casting a rotten glare at Sherlock. Maybe the man wishes that their roles were switched. It's not a bad wish.

"I'm the plus one," (Y/n) says through gritted teeth. Her voice still has the lilt, but doesn't sing as sweetly as before. It's a lie made of spite for Mr. Pasty. Both of them got their own invitations.

"Oh." Mr. Pasty exhales thinly through his nose and raises his camera up. "Smile," he says halfheartedly.

Sherlock attempts to give a grin at least half as charismatic as (Y/n)'s and hopes he succeeds. For some reason, he wants to portray himself to be worthy of (Y/n), worthy of her voice and laugh and her arm touching him and maybe even a fourteenth scar.

It's a startling realization. Sherlock wants (Y/n) to love him.

\- - - 

Sherlock's epiphany leaves him unable to properly communicate to (Y/n), which isn't productive towards what he wants, but he's doing it anyways. Eventually, she tires of attempting to make conversation and the two stand in silence, drinking their second glasses of champagne. He refrains from any more, the stag night ever so prominent in his mind.

It's in this silence when the host approaches them. Or really just approaches (Y/n). He meets her eyes for a second and then fixates upon the neckline of her dress, nothing that plunges down but does expose enough to tantalize the imagination.

Not that Sherlock is imagining anything.

 "Hello," he says in a deep, husky attempt to be sexy, "have we danced yet?"

(Y/n)'s mood and voice has recovered. "Not yet," she says, and her eyes light up. Sherlock wishes that he had made her do that. Apathy is a delightful quality for a detective, but completely inconvenient with anything else. The man has two scars on his wrist, an ex-wife and a mistress. Maybe tonight he'll get a third, a (Y/n).

"Would you like to?" The man reaches out and gently takes her left hand. The scars are slightly visible and his eyes widen. Nevertheless, he leads (Y/n) out on the dance floor, letting her lead the way so that he can stare at her unabashedly. 

Sherlock watches the two of them, watches how (Y/n) looks so unbelievably happy as they move together to the beat of the song. Her dress swishes in the air as she moves, and her heels click in a noisy fashion, but even her constant state of motion can't stop one fact from remaining solid.

She's much happier with the host, another ridiculous man in an Armani suit and hair slicked over his bald spot, than she was with him.

It leaves Sherlock feeling hollow, empty, and somewhat self-conscious over his messy mop of curls that he didn't even pull a hair brush through. It's ridiculous, unobservant, mundane thinking, but maybe a dollop of pomade in his hair would've made (Y/n) stay.

If she stayed for a minute more, an hour, a month, a year, a lifetime, Sherlock would've been happy.

And just like that, a searing pain cuts across Sherlock's left wrist.

\- - - 

He knows what this is. 

Sherlock races towards the exit, clutching his wrist, desperate to leave behind this wretched party, the wretched photographer, his wretched emotions.

The way out passes the dance floor. And of course, even though the probability of (Y/n) catching a glimpse of him should be next to nothing, she sees him. Her eyes pass over his face to his wrist, and suddenly a shadow passes over her features. The moon has been eclipsed. She pushes Mr. Pomade out of the way, something that gives Sherlock a brief flash of satisfaction. It's ruined when she goes and follows him.

He finds himself outside, leaning against the stone of the building, clutching his wrist as blood seeps through his fingers and splatters against the concrete. It hurts, yes, but not as much as his emotions' betrayal on his rational thought.

(Y/n) quickly joins him, holding her clutch in one hand and a chilled bottle of water in the other. Silently, she takes his left arm in her hand and pushes up his shirtsleeve.

It's a clean cut, shallow enough to not be threatening, but deep enough to scar the way it's supposed to. Sherlock doesn't know why he allows (Y/n) to touch him the way he is. Maybe because his emotions are so shot at this point that it doesn't really matter anymore. Besides, anything he feels for her is bound to be unrequited, thanks to the wonderful Mr. Pomade.

(Y/n) opens her clutch and pulls out a cloth hankerchief, douses it in water from the bottle, and presses it firmly against the cut. "I'm always prepared for this, " she says. Her voice is completely dull, monotonous. The musician has stopped playing. "If love were a disease, my immunity to it would be nonexistent." It's followed by a dry, bitter laugh.

When the cut stops bleeding, (Y/n) takes a clean edge of the hankerchief, wets it, and wipes away the smears of blood on his arm. "Is she still in there?" She asks, her eyes averted from his face.

"Who?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"The girl you fell in love with." She drops her hankerchief and pulls out a bandage from the clutch. "Or guy, or whoever."

What is he supposed to say? _No, she's out here with me right now, wiping a bloodstain off my arm?_ "I- maybe," he says uncertainly.

(Y/n) peels the wrapper off the bandage and presses it on the cut. "If she's still in here, you're going to march in there right now and tell her how you feel."

He's shocked. Why would anyone do that, admit their vulnerability, confess that yes, they have succumbed to the darkest aspect of human emotion? Who would be able to put themselves out there like that?

"If you don't," she continues, "I can assure you that it'll go nowhere." Her voice is heavy as it continues, "I did it with my number thirteen. I still love him, more than any of the first twelve, but my chance is gone." She exhales slowly. "I've got to start looking for a number fourteen, and if you make the same mistake, you'll have to go searching for a number two."

Images of (Y/n) and Mr. Pomade exchanging wedding vows flashes through Sherlock's mind. An odd, irrational sort of anger overcomes him.

\- - -

The movement is deranged, animalistic, feral. Sherlock takes (Y/n) by the shoulders, presses her firmly against the wall, and presses his mouth against hers. With the action, he manages to speak something without using words. _You're my number one._

She whispers against his lips, a few quick words that make him smile.

"You're number thirteen."

**Author's Note:**

> yall this sucks  
> im sorry  
> dont h8 but i know you cant appreciate


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